


Verisimilitude

by TelWoman



Category: From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Verisimilitude - n. the appearance or semblance of truth or reality</i><br/>A tale of art and theft, terrorism and seduction.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Verisimilitude

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the mid to late 1990s. The economic unification of Europe is well advanced; the internet is thriving. Dorian is still pursuing Klaus – confident that it is only a matter of time till the man he loves stops running; but in the meantime ...

They’d been in conference for nearly three hours and the table was piled high with blueprints and schematics.

James held up a colour photograph, studying it with greedy satisfaction: a painting of a reclining male nude lying on a vermilion cloth, his face obscured by darkness. On the back of the picture was written: _John the Baptist Reclining, Caravaggio (attrib.) 1610._

“This painting should bring at least three million pounds in ransom,” James gurgled gleefully, “and if the owner doesn’t pay up, we’ll sell it on the black market.”

“Oh, Jamesie, no! I won’t be asking for ransom money!” Dorian fixed an exasperated look on his accountant. _Hasn’t he been listening?_ “I want this painting for myself.”

“My lord! If you carry on like this we’ll be poverty-stricken!” James was appalled at his employer’s willingness to forgo income.

“James, my mind is made up.” The Earl spoke with passionate determination, his eyes blazing. “Victor Franssen is a philistine of the first order. He has no idea of what a sublime treasure he has in that painting. His only interest in it is that it cost him a lot of money and every moment it hangs on his wall it gains in value. It’s an insult to the memory of the artist who painted it. At least I can appreciate it for what it is.”

Bonham and Jones both cringed as Mr James wailed, “But my lord! This is business!”

“James, this is _not_ business. This is _Art_. This is about the soul of a great work, and we are going to rescue it and give it a good home where it will be properly appreciated. Money is not my concern.”

“But my lord – ”

“I’ll hear no more arguments, James. No ransom.” Dorian turned his attention to the papers on the table.

Mr James sulked, while Bonham, Jones and the Earl discussed entry and exit points.

“Y’know, me lord,” speculated Bonham, “we could buy time if we were able replace it with a good forgery. In fact, Franssen might not even notice we’ve made off with the real thing. Not until he comes to sell it, anyway.”

Dorian looked questioningly at Jones. “Can you manage it?” Jones could produce workmanlike forgeries of most things, from documents to works of art, but his other responsibilities left him with little time for a big job like a painting, and making a copy precise enough to withstand close scrutiny was a time consuming task.

Jones looked doubtful. “Without having seen the actual painting, it’s hard to turn out something that fools people for long. I know Franssen is more interested in money than art, but he does have eyes. I’d need more information about the painting itself.”

 _What you really need is more time … or an assistant,_ thought Dorian, but he merely nodded.

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Bonham reached around and picked up the receiver. “The Earl of Gloria’s residence; Bonham speaking.” He listened, a range of reactions flashing across his usually calm face, then turned to Dorian. “For you, my lord. It’s Major von dem Eberbach, calling from Bonn.” He handed the phone over.

“Why Major darling, hello!” Dorian spoke in warm, honeyed tones. “Such a pleasure to hear from you, as always.”

On the other end of the line, the Major ignored the greeting and cut straight to business. “Lord Gloria, NATO is in need of your expertise. Would you be available to fly to Germany at the end of this week for a preparatory meeting?”

“Why, Major, I’m always available for you, you know that,” cooed the Earl, grinning at the ferocious growl his words provoked. In more business-like tones, he said, “Yes, I can be there. Where and when?”

“Very well, Lord Gloria. Be at my office, 1300 hours, next Friday afternoon. Good day.”

Major von dem Eberbach rang off abruptly. Dorian handed the receiver back to Bonham.

“The Major has a job for us,” he told the others. “I will be flying to Germany for a meeting on Friday. Can you make the arrangements, please, Bonham?”

“Any hint of what kind of job?” Jones inquired.

“Not yet. I assume all will be revealed on Friday. I may stay in Bonn for the weekend, Bonham,” continued Dorian. “We’ll resume work on the Franssen project next Monday.”

Dorian smiled, his mind no longer on Victor Franssen’s painting. How long since he had seen Klaus? Three months? Four? The handsome German had been almost civil to him last time they met – when there were no others around to observe them. Dorian was sure it was only a matter of time and a little more gentle encouragement, before his stern and beautiful warrior would be his.

The conference drew to a close, with James resigned to seeing no income from the job, but the method of extraction still to be determined.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Standing in front of a full length mirror, Dorian smiled appreciatively at his own reflection as he adjusted his cufflinks and straightened the jacket of his pale grey suit. An acquaintance from the art world, Dr Eliza Swanson, Head of the Art Department at a provincial university, had invited him to open a student art exhibition. In the role of Lord Gloria, respected art expert and collector, Dorian wanted to look elegant and impressive but still approachable. _Art students can be so deliciously diverting,_ he thought.

As soon as he arrived at the gallery, Dorian was immediately claimed by Dr Swanson, who conducted him somewhat forcefully around the display. Dorian realised at once he was not going to be free to mingle as he pleased. Dr Swanson had firm ideas about what she wanted her guest of honour to do.

The exhibition featured the work of five young artists: three painters and two sculptors. Dorian was impressed by the work of all three painters. He found it hard to like the first sculptor’s work – spiky shapes wrought from rusty iron, leather and stone – but the other sculptor’s works captivated him. Sensuous, liquid shapes coaxed out of stone glowed with a subtle sheen under the soft lighting, begging to be touched, yearning for a hand’s caress.

“Whose work is this?” he asked Dr Swanson.

“Joseph Mallory. He’s something rather special, I think. Not one of my students in a formal sense; he’s not enrolled in the Art course. I dare say his family has pressured him into studying something more likely to lead to conventional employment. It’s so often the case.” She sighed. “Joseph is very talented. He uses the college studios after hours, and I’ve been mentoring him for about 18 months now.” She gazed around, searching. “Joseph!” she called, “can you spare a minute?”

Dorian’s eyes widened when he saw the young man walking toward them: tall, slender, with long black hair falling in soft waves over his shoulders and dark brown eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes.

“Lord Gloria, I’d like you to meet Joseph Mallory,” said Dr Swanson, delighted to be able to connect one of her protégés with the noted art collector. “Joseph, this is the Earl of Gloria. His lordship is interested in your work.”

Joseph smiled as they shook hands.

“Charmed,” said Dorian. He was.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Lord Gloria,” the young sculptor said. “I’m very glad you like my work.”

 _Mmm, darling, I think I like you too,_ Dorian’s thoughts purred. _Very, very pretty indeed._

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

The formal part of the opening was mercifully brief, and the Earl of Gloria’s speech was witty and upbeat, full of warm encouragement for the young artists and optimistic about the future of art in Britain. Listening to the speech, Joseph Mallory took advantage of the time to study Lord Gloria more closely. The Earl radiated self confidence and sex appeal, and Joseph was certain he’d seen a spark of interest in Lord Gloria’s dazzling blue eyes when they’d been introduced. Joseph watched, enthralled, as the Earl captivated his audience. The man was gorgeous.

After the formalities, Dorian found himself caught up in conversations with Dr Swanson’s official guests: academics, dignitaries from the town council, members of the art school board, prosperous citizens who liked to collect works by emerging artists – often in the hope that the works acquired cheap might one day become valuable, should the artist manage to achieve the success all dreamed of but few attained. Dr Swanson steered him from one guest to another with kindly firmness, ensuring they all had their chance to talk to the guest of honour. Dorian allowed himself to be paraded, but he would rather have been talking to the artists and students – and particularly, to that young sculptor with the divine brown eyes.

At last, when the crowd was thinning, Dr Swanson relinquished her proprietary hold on Dorian as she bustled off to oversee the winding-up of the event. He scanned the assembly, looking for Joseph. There he was: talking with a small knot of people over by the watercolours. Putting down his empty champagne flute, Dorian headed over toward them. By a stroke of good luck, just as he approached the group it broke up, most of them heading toward the door piping “Goodnight” and “See you later”.

Joseph smiled. “Lord Gloria,” he said.

“Please, my friends call me Dorian. What are you doing now? Would you like to join me for a late supper?”

Joseph looked startled for a split second, then stammered, “I – Thanks – Yes – I’d love to.”

For a moment Dorian felt dismayed – _Oh darling, please don’t turn into a tongue-tied teenager_ – but, smiling brilliantly, he disregarded the younger man’s flustered response as he led the way out to his car.

An hour later, the two sat in a small dimly-lit restaurant over a platter of oysters and a bottle of very dry, very expensive French champagne. Dorian had put the young artist at his ease and the conversation flowed freely. He asked about Joseph’s work, his influences, and the artists he admired. Joseph, delighted to be talking with such a well-informed art connoisseur, opened up and became quite eloquent.

He painted as well as sculpting, he said, but he had chosen not to pursue painting.

“Why not?”

“I prefer working in 3D,” explained Joseph, “and my painting really isn’t the best.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know … it lacks something. I don’t seem to be able to create anything with insight. Do you know what I mean? I have some technical ability … but I guess my soul just isn’t in it.”

Dorian smiled, recognising a choice he himself had made at a young age. His own painting was good, but not inspired, and his talent as a thief and his taste for danger had always fired his spirit to a greater degree than any aptitude he had as an artist.

“Dr Swanson mentioned you aren’t enrolled as an Art student.”

“No, I’m not. She’s taken me on as a kind of private project, I guess. It’s very kind of her to give me the time she does. I’m studying landscaping and horticulture.”

“Gardening?” Dorian exclaimed. “Rakes and shovels are a long way from a sculptor’s chisels!”

“Oh, I don’t agree!” said Joseph energetically. “Garden design is a form of sculpture. You’re working with shapes, with light and shade, textures and colour. It’s more of a gamble than sculpting, too: you can’t entirely control all the components. Plants grow as they will, so you have to work with them, coax them along, to achieve what you have imagined. I like the wild card element.”

A light of soft excitement glowed in Joseph’s eyes, and Dorian recognised a fellow risk-taker. The risks involved in garden design and burglary might be magnitudes apart, but the taste for chance was there. How strong was it? Dorian stored up the knowledge for later exploration.

“I’ll probably end up maintaining the gardens for the city council, though,” Joseph finished ruefully.

“And where would you work if you had the choice?”

“I’ve been looking at possibilities with the National Trust and English Heritage. What I’d really enjoy is working at some old castle or stately home; I’d love to restore a historic garden to its former glory.”

“The Tudor and medieval gardens at Castle Gloria are just aching to be restored,” mused Dorian.

Joseph grinned cheekily. “Perhaps you’d better offer me a job, then.” He picked up the last oyster.

Dorian watched the graceful ripple of Joseph’s throat as he swallowed, and when the pink tip of Joseph’s tongue darted out to lick the last salty traces from his lips, Dorian felt a pang of hunger that had nothing to do with food.

 _You’re a deep one,_ he reflected. _Only a sensualist could produce the sculptures you do, and there’s a risk taker in there clamouring to get out. How far are you prepared to go?_

Dorian poured the last of the champagne into their glasses. “So,” he said, his tone turning husky and seductive, “could I persuade you to spend a little more time with me?” He raised his glass, and sipped delicately, his eyes never wavering from Joseph’s. The younger man swallowed hard, a rush of lust blossoming in his eyes. Dorian, with a sly smile, took the young man’s hand and kissed it softly.

“This is where I say, your place or mine, isn’t it?” Joseph panted, trying hard to sound urbane and in control, but failing completely.

Dorian decided that his luxurious hotel suite might be too overpowering: Joseph would do best in his own familiar surroundings.

“My place is quite a long way from here,” Dorian said lightly. “Where’s yours?”

Joseph replied with an address about ten minutes away.

“Well, then,” purred Dorian, “your place it is.”

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Joseph’s flat was in the upper storey of an old house in a once-genteel neighbourhood. Just as Dorian had imagined, it was furnished sparsely with second-hand furniture and overlaid with student clutter.

The younger man took up the role of host. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks, darling,” Dorian murmured, “I think we have better things to do.” He drew Joseph into a warm embrace. “Much better things.”

Sighing softly, Joseph moulded his tall, slim body to Dorian’s. Their mouths melted together, and when the kiss ended Joseph felt light-headed. His veins were on fire; he wanted Dorian desperately.

“Bedroom, darling?” Dorian breathed, his lips brushing Joseph’s throat.

Joseph managed to gather himself sufficiently to lead the way, and Dorian followed him into the bedroom – only to stop abruptly at the foot of the bed, his attention diverted suddenly and completely away from seduction.

The wall behind the bed was almost entirely covered by framed oil paintings, all of a uniform size – all hand-painted copies of famous masters. Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Durer, Tintoretto, Magritte, Breughel … Dorian stared. He stepped closer, examining the brushwork. In each, the original artist’s technique had been imitated cleverly. If the paintings had been to scale, reproduced at the size of the original, they might have fooled any but the most informed observer.

“Extraordinary! These are very good. Where did you get them?”

“I painted them,” said Joseph, disconcerted. It was obvious that at least for the moment Dorian was more interested in his paintings than in him.

“Yours?”

“Er … yes. I told you before that I have some technical ability. I can make very good copies. I just can’t produce good original work.”

“You know there’s a market for hand-painted copies.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve done some for various people. Families who wanted a hand-painted copy of Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_ or something to hang in their sitting room, that sort of thing. They paid quite well.” Joseph sat on the bed, feeling deflated. Surely Dorian hadn’t changed his mind?

“Some people make a living out of it,” Dorian commented. Then, teasingly, “You have a forger’s talent.”

Joseph looked slightly embarrassed. “I was approached by someone to forge a painting once.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“He was a bent antiques and art dealer, a friend of my dad’s. My father wasn’t exactly on the right side of the law all the time. He spent a few years in jail while I was growing up.” Joseph shook his head. “He wasn’t a very successful criminal.”

“Was he involved in forgery?”

“No. He got done for robbing a post office somewhere in Wales,” said Joseph. “But he knew a few other shady characters. This bloke thought he could make a bit of money passing off forged paintings as the real thing.”

“So you’re happy to sell copies to people who know they’re copies, but won’t do the same work for someone who’s going to pass it off as genuine?”

Joseph sighed. “No. It seems … I don’t know, disrespectful. Stealing the artist’s intentions. When an artist creates something, he gives a piece of himself to the world. Forgeries trample all over that. It goes beyond just fooling the buyer. It’s an insult to the artist.”

Dorian looked at him steadily. _Complex thinking, my lad. What about forging a painting in the interests of liberating the original from a philistine?_

Aloud, he said, “So, he couldn’t talk you into to becoming a forger?”

“It would take a better crim than my dad or his associates to persuade me.”

The sly, seductive smile returned to Dorian’s beautiful face. “You have an extraordinary talent,” he said. “Your sculpture is inspired. Your technical ability with a brush is astonishing. What other talents do you have?” Grasping Joseph’s shoulders gently, he pushed him back onto the bed and bent down to kiss him again.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Faint traffic noise from the nearby streets filtered into the bedroom with the dim early morning sunlight. Dorian, normally a late sleeper, woke first. Joseph had been everything he had hoped: not only was the young man beautiful, he was a sensual and generous lover as well. Impressions from their long night of lovemaking drifted through Dorian’s mind … the creamy skin, the soft words of passion, Joseph’s dark hair fanned out on the pillow…

Abruptly, Joseph’s image was replaced by another – straighter dark hair, an imperious profile, unyielding green eyes. _Oh, Klaus,_ Dorian reflected remorsefully, thrusting the intruding image aside. _I wasn’t cut out to live like a monk._

Joseph stirred, smiling drowsily as he half-opened his eyes. “Mmmm,” he mumbled, snuggling up against Dorian. Sighing happily, the older man slipped one arm gently around Joseph’s slim body and pulled him close.

 _A bird in the hand…_ thought Dorian.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

At five minutes to one on Friday afternoon, the Earl of Gloria sauntered into the outer office of NATO Intelligence in Bonn.

“Lord Gloria! It’s good to see you!” trilled G. “Lovely scarf, my lord; that colour really sets off your eyes.”

“Thank you, G darling,” Dorian said, sounding pleased. “Ah, Z – how was your holiday? Did you enjoy Santorini?”

Before Agent Z could reply, the door to the inner office jolted open and Major von dem Eberbach appeared. “Damn it, stop wasting my men’s time! You lot – back to work! Let’s get down to business, Lord Gloria.”

Smiling lasciviously, the Earl glided past the remaining desks toward the Major’s doorway, a faint scent of roses following in his wake. Once the door to the office had closed, Dorian dropped the flamboyant performance and became focused and professional. “What do you want me to steal this time, Major?”

The Major said, “Have you heard of the Guardians of Economic Independence?”

The Earl shook his head.

“The Guardians of Economic Independence are a right-wing extremist group active across southern and central Europe. This group is opposed to the economic integration of Europe, and they’ve been behind a series of bombings carried out in the last twelve months across Italy, France, and Spain. The group’s founder, Dario Scarlato, was arrested last year; he was convicted after a long trial and jailed.”

Klaus opened a file lying on his desk and lifted out a photograph. “NATO has received intelligence that the Guardians are planning to break into the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid, and steal this painting. They will demand Scarlato’s release in exchange for it. If the exchange is refused, their plan is to destroy the painting, and broadcast its destruction on the internet.”

He handed the photograph to the Earl. It showed Picasso’s _Guernica._

Dorian looked up, aghast. “This painting is an icon of twentieth century art! It’s one of the greatest expressions of human endurance in the face of brutality ever painted! This can’t happen!”

Klaus looked grim. “The information we have indicates the group will make a move toward the end of summer. We have something like two months to organise our response. NATO wants you to steal the painting and replace it with a replica. If we can work without being detected, the Guardians can be expected to go ahead with their theft as planned. Naturally, the authorities will not agree to demands for Scarlato’s release, but if the terrorists carry out their threats and destroy the substitute, at least the original work will remain safe. In addition, the apparent destruction of a highly regarded work of art can be expected to swing public opinion more strongly against them. While they are playing their games of brinksmanship, NATO will be able to capture the ringleaders and severely curtail their operations.”

“The replica will need to be of good quality,” Dorian remarked. “It may be on public display, and under the eyes of the museum staff, for some time before the terrorists make their move.”

“That is correct,” the Major said. “NATO needs your assistance in this, as well. Can you and your associates provide a substitute of sufficient quality for the purpose?”

Dorian laid the photograph down on the desk, and sat silently for some moments, thinking. It would be a big job. _Guernica_ was huge: eleven feet tall and over twenty five feet long. Creating the replica would take time. The heist would be hard to conceal: the museum’s entire security system would need to be shut down, and transporting the canvases would be a major operation. Dorian would need his entire crew for this job.

“Lord Gloria?” prompted Klaus.

Straightening his shoulders, Dorian faced Klaus squarely. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

The whole team was gathered around the table, and the Earl’s expression was unusually solemn as he called the meeting to order.

“We have received a commission from NATO,” he began. “It is going to be a challenging operation, but I am sure you will agree with me that it is worth doing, when you hear what is at stake.” He gazed around the table at the expectant faces. He had the highest respect for their abilities, but time was short for this project, and if they failed –

“To be brief,” he said, “we have been commissioned to steal a painting from a museum and replace it with a replica, which we will produce for the purpose. The time lines are quite tight – this will need to be accomplished within the next two months. The reason for doing this theft and switch is to protect the original. A terrorist group has plans to steal the painting and hold it for ransom, demanding the release from prison of one of their prominent members. They will threaten to destroy it and broadcast the destruction on the internet if the authorities don’t agree to their terms – which they won’t.”

He paused. There was silence. Bonham spoke first. “What’s the painting?”

Dorian glanced round the group, his eyes grave. “ _Guernica._ ”

A burst of exclamation and chatter broke out around the table, then died down rapidly as Dorian held up his hand. “We have been asked to steal Picasso’s original, and replace it with a replica. If we don’t – if we can’t – one of the great icons of twentieth century art may be lost.”

Jones looked at Bonham, then back at the Earl. “Producing a replica in the time available will be tough.”

“I know, John Paul, but I also know I can rely on you.”

There was no reply possible to that. Jones sat back in his chair, contemplating the magnitude of the task.

As the men filed out at the end of the meeting, Dorian pulled Jones aside, worried by his trusted associate’s unusual expression of uncertainty.

“John Paul, I know time will be short, but we don’t have much choice. Can you manage it?”

“My lord, I know we can do it, but can we do it in time? Getting the finish right is important: the fake will be on public display, won’t it?”

“Yes, it will. We can’t be sure for how long. So it has to be good.”

“Well, we need to get it right. I’ll need all the help I can get, because you’ll need me working on the electronics team for this job too.”

Dorian had realised for some time that his chief forger needed more support, and now that the matter was urgent, he came to a decision.

“John Paul, there’s someone I want you to meet. He may be just the man we need.”

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Dorian and Jones climbed the three flights of stairs to Joseph’s flat, and rang the bell.

The young artist opened the door. “Dorian!” he exclaimed delightedly, and then, noticing Jones, he adopted a more neutral expression. “Come in.”

Dorian made the introductions. “This is Jones, a colleague of mine.” The men shook hands; Joseph invited his guests to sit down.

“Joseph, I need to talk to you. I need your help with something very serious,” said Dorian.

Joseph sat stock still while Dorian unfolded the story the Major had told him about the terrorist group and their plans to steal and possibly destroy Picasso’s famous painting.

“How are you mixed up with this?” Joseph recognised that the Earl was well-connected in the art world but struggled to link that up with international counter-terrorist measures.

“There’s something you don’t know about me,” Dorian responded, “but because I am asking you for your help, you need to know. I am an art thief.”

“What!”

“I’m an art thief. I steal works of art. I’m known as Eroica. And because I am a very good thief, NATO Intelligence sometimes hires me to steal for them.”

“So … where do I fit into this?” Joseph asked cautiously.

“NATO has hired me to steal the original painting and replace it with a replica. Our resources are going to be very stretched on this job. I need a good copyist to do the replica for me.”

Joseph sat frozen, staring at Dorian, for fully ten seconds. Finally, he said, “You’re asking me to forge a painting. You’re asking me to forge _Guernica._ ”

“Yes. Will you do it?”

“No!”

“Please, Joseph – I need your help on this.”

“No, Dorian! I’ve told you how I feel about forgery.”

“Joseph, this is nothing like trying to fool unsuspecting buyers with a fake painting.”

“But – “

“Joseph, this is about protecting a great work of art, a work of enormous symbolic significance. The replica I am asking you to paint will shield the original from harm. You will be instrumental in ensuring Picasso’s masterpiece can be saved.”

“Dorian – please don’t ask me to do this.”

“I must ask you to do it. You are the only person I can trust to do this well enough. I can see you’re frightened – ”

“Damn right I am!” Joseph was pale; he felt scared and insulted, but it was Dorian who was asking him.

Dorian said gently, “Joseph, whatever happens, I promise you that you won’t go to prison. I have a friend who can ensure that.”

Joseph stood up. “Excuse me a minute,” he said, “I need to think.” He walked shakily through to the kitchen.

Dorian ran his hands distractedly through his hair. He had hoped the young artist would be persuaded by the knowledge that his work would protect the original painting from harm. He glanced at Jones. “Do you think he’ll come round?” he asked.

“Looks like he’s got a lot going on in his mind. This isn’t easy for him,” said Jones.

Dorian sighed. “I’ll go and see how he is.”

“No, don’t.” Jones grimaced. “I’ll go.” He rose and went through to the kitchen.

Joseph was standing at the window, tense and confused. His heart wanted to please Dorian, but his head told him sternly that he was being used, and if he got himself into this he’d never get out of it. He looked at Jones, whose eyes were full of sympathetic understanding.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” said Joseph hopelessly.

“Joseph, I know we’re asking a lot of you. But the stakes are high. These terrorists mean business. They’ll carry out their threat without hesitation. Eroica can pull off the theft and switch, but we need the switch to go undetected. This replica has to be of the highest quality – it has to pass the scrutiny of the public and the museum staff, for an unknown period of time. Lord Gloria tells me that you have the ability to imitate any artist’s style and he trusts you to achieve the standard we need. And I trust his judgement. Will you do it?”

Joseph rubbed his forehead hard. He could do it; he knew he could – but once he threw in his lot with Eroica, there would be no turning back. His next question startled Jones.

“Are you his lover?”

“No,” Jones replied. Then, after a moment: “I was once, a long time ago.”

“And now you work for him?”

“Yes.”

“Is this how he recruits his associates?” asked Joseph bitterly. “Makes them fall in love with him so they can’t say no?”

Jones didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Instead, he said again, “Will you do it, Joseph?”

The younger man didn’t answer for some time. When he did, his voice barely audible, he said, “Yes. I’ll do it.”

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

He was committed now. Joseph brushed aside his remaining doubts and threw himself into the work he was given. The young artist moved in to Castle Gloria, where for the next six and a half weeks he became part of Eroica’s team. The difference he saw in Dorian surprised Joseph most of all: instead of the elegant aesthete, he saw a focused strategist, a leader in full control of his men, managing the complex operation with military efficiency. Every day was filled with planning and preparation, rehearsals and simulations. Joseph’s time was spent creating the replica, working under John Paul’s guidance and supervision.

After six and a half weeks’ hard work, the replica was finished and smuggled into Spain. The team entered the country through half a dozen different entry points, to rendezvous in Madrid. Joseph, whose role began and ended with the creation of the replica, stayed in England.

It was a cool night late in July when Eroica and his men gathered in the shadows behind the Reina Sofia Museum. At 2:37 am, Jones hacked into the Museum’s computers, shutting down the security system and the electronic locks on the doors and windows. At 2:39, the four security guards were simultaneously put to sleep with carefully calibrated measures of soporific gas. At 2:43, Eroica led his team into the Museum, where the original painting was carefully removed from the wall and replaced with the replica. The original, packed in its purpose-built container, was spirited away in a spacious cargo transport to a military airfield, where a NATO cargo plane waited to take it to a secure storage facility in Switzerland. Within hours, Eroica and his men were a long way from Madrid.

The following morning, the four security guards woke at their posts. There was no sign of any disturbance, and the security systems were all active and giving no indication that they had been tampered with in any way. The puzzling incident was investigated, but did not make it into the news.

Three weeks later, the Guardians of Economic Independence made their move, and when they did, the trap closed on them.

The arrest of the ringleaders made front page news across Europe, and re-hanging Picasso’s famous painting was carried out under the glare of media attention. Details of who had undertaken the theft and switch remained secret, but the authorities made it known that the terrorists had been beaten at their own game. Dario Scarlato remained behind bars, where he was joined by a number of his fellow extremists. Weakened by the destruction of their inner circle, reviled by the public, the Guardians of Economic Independence were rendered powerless – for the time being.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

“Telephone, my lord,” called Bonham, poking his head into Dorian’s study. Dorian picked up the phone. It was the Major.

“Lord Gloria, I want to thank you for the part you played in this operation,” Klaus said with unusual sincerity. “I have come to recognise just how large a task NATO gave you, and your bringing it off was the basis of this mission’s success.”

“Why, Major, I appreciate your saying so,” Dorian replied, no hint of flirtation in his voice.

“Perhaps the next time you are in Bonn, we could meet over dinner.”

“Yes, I would enjoy that very much,” said Dorian, not quite believing what he was hearing. Was the Major actually unbending a little?

“Very well,” said Klaus. “Until next time, then.”

Even before he had hung up the phone, Dorian was making plans to travel to Bonn within the next few days.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Dorian climbed the three flights of stairs to the flat at the top of the old house, and rang the bell. It was late, but Joseph was still up and he smiled warmly as he let Dorian in. “Have you seen the news reports?” he asked.

“Yes,” chuckled the Earl. “The authorities are basking in glory, taking credit for outsmarting the terrorists. The best part, though, is that _Guernica_ is back where it should be: where people can appreciate it.”

“What do you think they did with the replica?” Joseph asked.

“I have no idea, darling, but most likely they will put it in a dusty store-room, and in fifty years when the story of all this is told they will put the replica on show alongside the real thing – ‘Artist Unknown’.” Dorian looked steadily at the younger man. “Now that it’s over, do you feel all right about having painted the replica?”

“Yes, I do,” said Joseph. He laughed. “Maybe forging for a good cause is not such a bad thing. I told you it would take a better crim than my father to persuade me.”

Dorian smiled. “Listen,” he said, “the first night we met, you were talking about restoring historic gardens. Is that really what you want to do?”

“Yes, it is.”

Dorian looked thoughtful. “Then, would you be interested in working for me? The gardens at the Castle really are in need of restoration. You’d have the funding to back up whatever you choose to do. I would want a top class job, fully researched.”

“And what else would you want me to do?” Joseph didn’t expect this offer to be straightforward.

“Well…” Dorian began casually, “if there were to be other good causes that required your talents with a paintbrush … would you consider it?”

“Like the Franssen project?”

“How do you know about that?” Dorian asked sharply.

Joseph shrugged. “John Paul told me.”

Dorian was not pleased. “I don’t think John Paul should have been talking to you about that.”

“Never mind,” soothed Joseph. “I’m one of your team now, so it doesn’t matter.”

“So I can take that as a yes? You’ll come and work for me?” Joseph nodded. “Good, then; I’m glad that’s settled.”

The sly, seductive smile returned to Dorian’s face as he reached out and combed gentle fingers through Joseph’s dark, silky hair. “Now that I’m here … if you don’t object to sleeping with your employer … perhaps I could stay the night?”

Joseph wound his arms around Dorian and said, “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

 

/end/

**Author's Note:**

> Both paintings mentioned in this story are real. ' _Guernica_ ' hangs in the Museo Reina Sofia, and as far as I know it has never been the target of a terrorist plot. ' _John the Baptist Reclining_ ' is still in private ownership, and experts continue to dispute whether it was painted by Caravaggio or not. On the other hand, The Guardians of Economic Independence, Dario Scarlato, and Victor Franssen are all fictional.


End file.
